She turned so she could see his face. “I don’t know what I need.” She made a little gesture of hopelessness with her hands. “Other than you.” She smiled. “That part’s simple. Twenty-four/seven, stay within touching distance.”
“You’ve got my vote on that,” he said easily, refusing to give in to destructive thoughts, thinking he’d remember the feel of her in his arms, the ridiculous little flash of warmth, for a million years.
She wiggled her bottom, wanting him to come back from wherever he was, wanting him to smile. “And him too?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t know how to behave around you.” He gave a wry chuckle “Gun to his head, he’d still keep going if you wanted him to.”
“Thanks.” She looked up at him with a discreet curiosity. “Feeling a little better now?”
God, she was appealing, all wide-eyed innocence, like she’d be stepping on his toes if she asked him to fuck her or what was wrong or if something was wrong. “I’m good. I’m always good with you.” She was his treat in a world of endless chaos. “Come on, pussycat,” he said, rising from the sofa with her in his arms. “Let’s see if you can scream loud enough to make Natalie smile.”
“Jesus, for sure I won’t scream now,” she said, as he pulled back the quilt and placed her in the middle of the bed.
And she didn’t until the third time.
Several enjoyable hours later, Nicole was standing before the mirror in Rafe’s bedroom in Paris, turning this way and that, glancing over her shoulder, finally facing him with a tiny frown.
“Will this outfit do? You know better than I what’s proper in a sex club.”
Rafe, having dressed with his usual speed, was lounging in a chair, drinking a nineteen-year-old whiskey, admiring the view. Quickly censuring his first few comments about proper attire in a sex club, he said, “I’m not sure proper’s the right word, pussycat. But you look beautiful as usual, and that outfit is so damned sexy I’m going to have to spend all night fighting off the competition.”
Her little frown deepened. “Sexy as in I look like I’m selling it on the corner?”
“I’ve never actually seen anyone selling it on the corner,” he said, more or less honestly, “so I’ll wing it and say no.” Since Alessandra had sent him an e-mail of the invoice, he knew for a fact the only corner anyone would be selling it in this particular outfit was on the corner of six thousand euros.
“Good.” She smiled. “Thanks. This is all a little new to me.”
“Nothing to worry about. Just stay close so I don’t have to punch anyone.”
“I don’t want anyone but you”—she blew him a kiss—“so no punching required.”
He grinned. “Spoken with the peerless virtue I require in my faux fiancée.”
“Pshaw—this little thing?” Smiling widely, she thrust her left hand in his direction, and the unpretentious sapphire surrounded by diamonds on her left finger sparkled and gleamed.
“That little thing means I own you,” Rafe said, smiling back. He was putting his mark on her for the world for reasons entirely unclear. But he wasn’t looking for an escape route. At least not now.
“Only till the end of the month, when you get this back.” Nicole smiled. “I’ve never been fake engaged before, but so far I like it.”
“Good. I think it makes perfect sense. Like losing your brakes doing eighty.”
“Or going for broke.”
His grin had a reckless shine. “You and me on a runaway train, pussycat.”
They were both fully committed to their exuberant, intoxicating, fiercely impassioned, provisional game that overlooked reality, contravened practicalities, and allowed them to please and gratify themselves for twenty-six more days in the euphoric world of their choosing. Realistically less, but only one of them was privy to that information.
“Seriously, though, tiger, you’re not allowed to stray from my side. That outfit screams fuck me.”
Nicole was barely dressed: all lush boobs, tiny waist, and legs that went on forever. Her flowery silk bustier was a colorful design of pale cream and yellow roses on a scarlet background, her waist compressed to hands-span width, the tiny cups barely covering her nipples, her breasts pushed up into high, plump mounds by the taut boning. A short, swingy skirt in the same fabric complemented the bustier and spike heels with sparkly straps that wound up Nicole’s ankles pretty much signaled that fuck me wasn’t out of the question.
She smiled as she tossed a tiny embroidered purse over her shoulder. “I’ll cling to you like a lifeline in a storm.”